It was in Gators twenties when he found an apartment that fitted his mood. Recently discharged from the military, Gator was going to art school. The apartment fit the inherited car from his Grandfather, an old, square shaped Buick sedan. It wasn’t Gator’s last car, the British Racing Green MGA with the real knock-off spoke wheels and Pirelli Cinturados and the Derrington wood rim steering wheel. No, It was the car of his discarded Grandfather, now passed down to Jack. Discarded because the once strong fireman was not useful anymore.

Grandpa had killed Gators cat when Jack was young, just because it deserved to be discarded in Gramp’s opinion. It felt sort of right too that Gator’s family sold his precious MGA when the draft came in with a whirlwind of death harvest for Vietnam. Jack signed on first before he went west to the jungles. He went east to the Mediterranean sea instead. So Jack sold the Buick right away, traded it actually for an Austin Healy Sprite. Felt good to be in a roadster again. Made up a bit for the Green MGA and the cat.

Jacks apartment was a dump. Second floor above a Sherman Williams paint store on the wrong side of the tracks. Corner store, separate entrance. Jack had a neighbor who was down and out and bummed

smokes from Jack. When Jack would ask him how things were going, the neighbor always said: “just take me to the dump” It seems that the latest attitude we all have. “It’s at the end of it’s service life” or “that old thing? Too expensive to fix, toss it” “ You’re what! Pregnant! Git rid of it, You’ve got your whole life ahead of you!” and our favorite: “Heck, he’s over 80. Forget that cornea transplant. I mean really, how many years does he have left anyway?” “Put her in a home, she won’t notice anyway” And so forth.

Feeling useless because the popular philosophy now is Existential in nature. One man in particular, a philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, went insane in the most beautiful country in the world, Switzerland. He came to the point of knowing the tension and despair for the loss of meaning in his life because of the loss of a personal God. His words are profound: “ But all pleasure seeks eternity-a deep and profound eternity”. Our country has found itself discarding our God of Creation perhaps because He is inconvenient and is sort of a kill joy because of all those rules he has. “I can’t follow all those rules in the Bible!” Of course we can’t, that’s the point of the rules. We need Him.

So we discard what we feel and know is not worthwhile to us. An old car, out of date food and personal relationships that are used up and don’t make us feel the way we want to. Or the way we feel we are entitled to perhaps. We have so much ‘stuff ‘ that it gets in our way when we don’t like it or need it. Broken things, old things past their expiration dates. Things that we don’t even remember acquiring. And so it goes on and on until it becomes easier to discard than repair. “That car, it was getting old and anyway, I was tired of driving it” How much different is it when it comes to this? “He was getting on my nerves. All this talk about going to a church marriage counselor! It was his fault, so I divorced him”

It seems prudent to us to just put it in a blue plastic container and park it down by the end of the driveway every Tuesday. ‘Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water! Throw out the tub too!’ I can do what I want, that’s what the world says. Another philosopher, De Sade put it well: “If there is no standard, no real moral base, then that old woman walking down the road can either be helped or run over. No difference if there are no moral standards” (set by an eternal infinite loving God who knows us and desires us to love him with the passion he loves us with.)

So, it’s our choices, the small ones that make a great impact on everyone. Should I discard this friend? This inconvenient baby? This old fashioned religious teaching? This God who never did anything I asked Him to do!

Always, always our choice to build, repair, embrace and seek truth in the eyes of the Man who is more alive than any man who ever lived. Jesus, the master repairman of old and stressed lives. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Always, the phone call from the hospital. Telling Gator’s mom that his dad had been taken to the big hospital downtown. Again. The downside to bravery at the Fire Department. Running into yet another fire, burning building to rescue someone. Now and then a fellow fireman overcome while manning the nozzle. Dad always said that the warehouse fires with cardboard were the worst. The flames roaring up all the small channels in the boxes creating an incredible firestorm.

It was from Dad Gator that Jack learned the way of life to conquer fear. To run towards it with determination and the shield of honor. Jack’s Grandpa was a retired fire chief and it had taken a toll on him. Reticent and very somber and unapproachable, Grandpa Gator was the walking wounded. Too many men lost. Too many people caught up in tragedy that could not be rescued in time.

The old manhood of Firemen and Policemen. Serving the city by putting their lives on the line. There was, of course, rivalry and pretty good natured for the most part. Name calling in humor: ‘Hose stretcher!’ ‘Meter maid!’ Things that men do to create a bond with one another in dangerous jobs.

So Gator learned early what facing fear looked like. His dad was wounded too with all the adrenaline rushes at two am as he geared up and hopped into the back wheel of the big ladder truck. Out of the fire barn and the siren wailed down the empty streets of the big city. It popped out at home at times and the big city guys used alcohol to calm down. Gator’s dad was unavailable emotionally for most of Jack’s life. A fireman that was burned out.

Much later, Jack found the lessons from his Dad valuable. Run towards fear, give no quarter to danger of any sort. Be bold and put it all on the line. Calmly telling that big thief in Oakland that fighting to the death was the only way Jack would allow the theft. Replying to the big prison guard that ‘dancing in the isolation cell might be fun’. The time the small town toughs came after midnight and Jack walked side by side with his best friend towards them with their tent poles disguised as shotguns.

Stay calm and mean it. Jack had a dream of walking by a town that had a big gateway over the road going down to it. He could hear screams and awful danger coming from below in the town. The urge to run was strong. Jack turned around and ran down the road to the town. It was just a dream but it felt like a test he was going through.

Later in life, Jack had to face his own fears that were now, just reactions with no basis in reality. Now he would run away from conflict thinking he would be killed by a runaway railroad car (another true life situation) or worse. Complete and utterly false perceptions of his family and friends that was very confusing to everyone, including Gator. “Too much Trauma in your life” the therapist said. He taught Jack how to discern reality. Six tenths of a second reaction time to decide what is almost always false. Shut down the escape. Move forward. Jack was in a battle with himself and he had to run towards the battle within. Not easy, necessary.

Now, Jack lives within his destiny. Always looking towards the one thing that gives him strength to be the Gator he was meant to be. The living God that invites Jack into the secret place, the garden of love. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

There you have it, an old saying just modified a little bit. There is truth behind this. There is no longer any option to travel. One way or the other, left or right. Up or down, etc. Having a good map really helps when this happens. That’s why we have Alexei in our GPS apps to tell us which exit on the roundabout to take. Of course, it gets confusing a lot with those choices and names. At least you can go around for another shot at it.

So it goes with travel. An old Scotsman farmer remarked to a lost tourist. “Well, if I was going there I wouldn’t start from here” So where do we start with other forms of travel such as serious choices? Which way to turn? Travel is a multipurpose word. It can also mean our lives as well traveled or not so much. Of course, if one is of a mind to be blase’ about life in general, turns and forks just mean another adventure. Gator has lived like that for a great amount of his life. The buzzwords were: Karma, or life path. No choice involved, just what was lined up for you. Studying chapter and verse on such worldviews was a path to meaninglessness. The standby word for unexpected paths was “whatever.”

C.S. Lewis’ writing on these things is succinct:”The road to hell is a gentle slope, soft underfoot. No warning signs, no signs or turning.” There is the thought of my master in writing. That there is no fork in the road once you decide to pursue it.

When I was on my ‘walkabout’ on my Royal Enfield, I knew the destination but took a few forks in the road on the way. laissez faire sort of travel, led to all sorts of adventure. There was a map on board but the dominant thought for me and my best friend, Buce, was the unknown path. (Bruce was riding an old BMW R59)

Mistakes were made, ones that were ‘challenging’. Both of us had recently been discharged and it was nifty to choose your own path. Bruce’s bike had an arrangement of the front suspention on his bike, it was called an ‘Earles Fork’ Getting tired of the homographs? A few more to go.

There were also plenty of forks in the road in the early days, not even seen as decisions that had to be made. Just ‘chance’ or ‘luck’ or ‘destiny’. There weren’t any warning signs either. A simple ‘rough road’ or ‘falling rocks ahead’ would have been enlightening. I am not certain that forked decisions are destiny or foolishness. After all, if you can even hear the screams or explosions, it would seem prudent to go some other way or just do a U turn. So, random fork choosing can be fun, dangerous, thrilling or destructive. How can you tell which road or path is correct?

There is perfect advice available and it isn’t Map Quest. Consult the map maker himself, He will advise and tell you of the choices. You decide. That’s called freedom. One fork will lead to a fulfillment destination and the other one will lead to eternal captivity of an unpleasant type. The Map Maker will even tell you which fork in the road is good and correct. If you choose to listen to Him. Take the wrong turn anyway and you will not be saved from falling into Judgement, the eternal type.

That’s right. He will save you from His Father. 1. That’s what salvation means. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

1. Gregory Koukl The Story of Reality

But we live in a world that has lost its appreciation for small things. We live in a world that wants things bigger and bigger. We want to supersize our fries, sodas, and church buildings. But amid all the supersizing, many of us feel God doing something new, something small and subtle. This thing Jesus called the kingdom of God is emerging across the globe in the most unexpected places, a gentle whisper amid the chaos. Little people with big dreams are re-imagining the world. Little movements of communities of ordinary radicals are committed to doing small things with great love.

…Shane Claiborne, The Irresistible Revolution, Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2006 p 25

And perhaps, as those who do not turn to God in petty trials will have no habit or such resort to help them when the great trials come, so those who have not learned to ask Him for childish things will have less readiness to ask Him for great ones. We must not be too high-minded. I fancy we may sometimes be deterred from small prayers by a sense of our own dignity rather than of God’s.      

… C.S. Lewis (1898-1963), Letters to Malcolm, Harcourt, Brace & World, 1963 p 23

The smallest things become great when God requires them of us; they are small only in themselves; they are always great when they are done for God, and when they serve to unite us with Him eternally.

    … Francois Fenelon (1651-1715), Letters to Men and Women, P. Owen, 1957 p 55

We bless the life around us far more than we realize.  Many simple, ordinary things that we do can affect those around us in profound ways: the unexpected phone call, the brief touch, the willingness to listen generously, the warm smile or wink of recognition.  We can even bless total strangers and be blessed by them.  Big messages come in small packages.                                                                             …Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D., My Grandfather’s Blessings, Riverhead Books, 2000 p 5

The true Christians are the true citizens, lofty of purpose, resolute in endeavor, ready for a hero’s deeds, but never looking down on their task because it is cast in the day of small things; scornful of baseness, awake to their own duties as well as to their rights, following the higher law with reverence, and in this world doing all that in their power lies, so that when death comes they may feel that humanity is in some degree better because they lived.

…Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919), 26^th U.S. President, The Strenuous Life, P. F. Collier & Son, 1900 p 272

  IT’S PRETTY GOOD. JACK

After several years at sea, expectations were always high with Norm when a seaport was coming into view. A place where a ship could anchor out and liberty sections were announced. Sometimes, I would have to man my duty station so other men in my division could go ‘On the Beach’.

Every seaport has a flavor, remembered by the salty ones. Izmir Turkey was known for pushy vendors trying to buy your pants. Odd to everyone on board. Just for the materiel of the wool it seemed. One could not imagine a Turk wearing a pair of Dress Blues. Malta was odd with many tobacco shops every where. I bought a clay pipe and some pipe tobacco. It made me feel connected with the past. 3 riggers with a man at the tiller haveing a smoke with a gentle breeze coming to port.

Rhodes was only remembered by the absence of the Colossus at the breakwater. There were other images which I have decided at this time to put on the back shelf of memory. Villa France, Palma De Majorca. Home port was the best as that was where I had a small apartment and civilian clothes.

It was Naples, Italy where I began to feel at home in a way. Learning a little Italian and just walking about. My apartment was on the top floor of the Galleria Umberto with good views of the galleria below. In a cross for a city block with the glass dome above me. I met a swell English gal in a coffee shop and she agreed to accompany me on the local train to view Pompei. It was a mistake. The pornographic scenes painted on the crumbling walls were enough to put her off. Fascinating place with all the remants of body imprints where they layed as the Vesuvius errupted and buring the city with volcanic ash. Never saw that young woman again. She saw a young man with a nice Harris tweed jacket at first meeting. Perhaps her impressions changed a bit. The train ride there was most pleasant, the ride back was a bit less so.

Decades later, Norm and his wife Julie went to a seaport that was a bit over a hundred miles away from the home ranch in Wisconsin. Duluth.

Big ships coming and going and the big air horns blasting the letter G (dah dit dah dah) with thrilling low bass notes as they hove into view to signal the lift bridge and say hello. I like that sound. Akin to the big bass notes at the largest pipe organ in the world, run by air. They are similar to the EMI magnets which I have also enjoyed, which astonishes most everyone. “You liked that? The thruming and the tight space too which reminded me of the submarines I briefly was assigned to from Basic training. Tight quarters, in the suface Navy too. More stories I have written about.

At the local seaport it was the same thing I experienced decades ago at sea, but with a complete satisfaction this time. Myself and Julie were broke when we left this seaport but very pleased at the experience. Breakfast with linen and several courses of souffle and perfectly baked rolls and new forks after every course. Ocean front views from the sumptuous room and a steam bath in the bathroom. Unbelievable waterfront gardens and gracious servants and hosts. Expensive. Worth it as you can surmise.

A short walk to the port itself with more things to buy and shops eagerly extending welcomes at their Doors. Glassblowing, exotic ice cream concoctions, carriage rides and fountains akin to Trevi in Rome. A violin shop in a large building with expensive instruments and a very erudite and friendly proprietor. Excellent wares and again, money given with satisfaction by us. A very nice instrument built with Spalded wood that Julie was eager to play.

The best part was when I began to connect and experience God’s presence among the throngs that were present when a ship bigger than my Navy ones was leaving port. Close up at the seawalls at the canal as the ship slowly steamed by. Watching the churning aft as it headed out to sea.This time the hatches secure with the loaded iron ore. Sea gulls circling for the anticipated food preparation aftermath. Of course, there is spilled popcorn for them near the breakwater too.

It was pleasant with the crowds, the best part was that I recognized people that were in love. Something about them would prompt me to boldly approach these strangers and state: “You love Jesus, don’t you!” One hundred percent response that day. A small sign, even a cross seen or the glimpse of a lingering smile. The upturned cheek line perhaps. Mostly a prompt from the Holy Spirit to tell them. Several older women remarked; “How did you know?!” “It shows” I would respond. There was audible delight as they would turn to a companion excitedly and begin smiling as they talked.

It was easy this time, the place was full of believers. They were Just experiencing the joy of spring and a lot of freedom. Faces exposed now and seen with joy. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

SLIDING DOWN THE BRASS FIREPOLE

There was a swelling of pride in Gator’s dad. His son, in the firehouse, sliding down the brass pole he had come down so many times before. Seeing all the turn out gear below him, Gator Jr. made a few adjustments to his drop and came down right by his Dad. It was an old brick firehouse in the cities. Located just south of ‘The projects’ and ancient by today’s standard.

A ticker tape in the office transmitted where the fire was and there was a very loud bell that rang to awaken the men upstairs and also signal how many alarms the fire was. Two or three rings meant a big one. Gator’s dad was a ‘smoke eater’. Apt nickname as this was way before Scott Air packs. They men just had some sort of filter box and a hose to a mask. Sort of like having a T Shirt on your face at a campfire. Not too effective. Many were the calls late at night to Gator’s home telling them Dad was in hospital again with smoke inhalation.

Like most city men who put their lives on the line, the firemen were hard drinkers. Sometimes they even drank with their brothers in arms, the cops. Rivalry and military barracks demeanor. There was already trouble brewing in the somewhat fashionable stucco home the Gator’s lived in. Jack adored his dad, even though Jack would get ‘whipped’ now and then with a dowel rod from Dad’s basement workshop. Much later in life, Jack realized his Dad loved him too. There were just too many half empty bottles in the joists above the basement shop that helped ease the pain of Dad’s life. One night there was a scream that woke Jack up. Dad had made a mistake with the gate on his table saw and cut off a couple of fingers. Another trip to the hospital for a firefighter. One of Dad’s good friends was a neurosurgeon and Dad got the fingers back. Working.

Gator got into Ham radio rather young, fifth grade. Dad, the old ladder climber, put up a “long wire” from the roof to a tree out on the boulevard. Jack contacted Russia one night and had his room’s south wall covered with QSL cards. Neighbors were a little prickly about the standing waves coming off of the antenna. Their Jackie Gleason program got scrambled. A few semi-polite knocks on the kitchen door from across the street.

Jack and Dad went up north to Wisconsin now and then. They built a cabin on Gull Lake and except for the resort next door, it was the only cabin on the lake. Fishing was pretty good and Jack would row out to the edge of the Lilly pads and using a popper on a fly rod, limit out on big sunfish and paper mouth’s. Twice a day. Lunch and supper. Dad Gator was really good at cleaning and Jack loved the sound of a swirl at the edge of a pad.

Dad taught Jack how to survive a fight and at fourteen succeeded in Knocking Dad out for a minute or two. Special move when grabbed from behind. All in all, Jack and Dad had a good time there in the woods. One time Dad sawed off an end of the ridgepole and it dropped down on Jack’s head. “Are you OK?” Jack was OK.

A few years later, Jack’s mother had an affair with a city fireman that lived nearby. Different firehouse. There was a bit of a battle one night and soon after, Dad came down from upstairs with his suitcase. Jack ran into the bathroom and sobbed. His mother and sister were laughing with joy right outside the door. They didn’t know how much Jack loved his Dad, they didn’t know this imperfect man like Jack did. The other fireman soon moved in and he wasn’t much fun. He smelled odd and didn’t belong in Jack’s life. Never did.

Jack found his Dad out in California after the Navy. Jack was rescuing an old school bus after putting a new piston in the engine. Dad’s neighbor adjusted the valves while it was running and the neighbors in the ritzy neighborhood were not thrilled. Dad was overjoyed to see his son and it went well. It was pretty good. Jack

The missionary, out in ‘the field’, we have all heard the term and some of us have been one. There are so many ‘fields’ in the world. Gator has an image of this field as wading through a jungle or trudging about a very different terrain in Africa. It seems everyone that has been asked, suggested to about this field, thinks of deepest, darkest Africa. Complete with Indiana Jones types and indigenous people that can kill you in many various ways if you make a social faux pax. The favorite one seems to usually be a blowgun dart or a bent tree branch with spikes. An occasional deep pit with the same spikes from the local spikes and thorns section of the local Fleet of Feet store.

But, there is another mission field, and it does not usually require a stand by ticket. Of course, flying on the frayed cuff involves sleeping in various airport terminals in various positions. Pulling chairs together or dreaming of a quarter activated storage locker that slides out about six feet. Those dreams can come unexpectedly while sagging between those chairs. There are also predators in the terminals which could sweet talk a Chicago cop into taking a limo ride to a fanciful and benevolent location with soft pillows and a mint on said pillow. The world needs missionaries in many locales, not just in far away places. Right in one’s own neighborhood actually.

The Gator family created a mission in their area of the world that gave families a bounty of food for ten bucks.

There are professional food gleaners that acquire food from distributors. Food that is out of date or about to be out of date. Some foods too that just don’t move as fast as thought. Pickled eels, fresh Beetle juice (two stars for that one), Dried mushroom flour, things like that. Gator has a ‘best by date’ that indicates he is prime for sale as well. About ten years ago. The food in reality is good fruit, veggies, breads and often meats as well.

The best part of the ‘Feed The Meek’ mission was the two Gators (Mrs and Mr) that held a meeting before the food was set out on tables. In another room with chairs, filled with people with shopping bags, carts and cardboard boxes. Eager at times to hear what these intriguing reptiles had to say, they listened. There was nothing else they could do. Sort of a standby terminal for flying into the next room and getting your ten bucks worth of good stuff.

So, the Gators talked to the room about how the food was obtained and why the volunteers showed up to help. Even carrying out the bounty to trunks and back seats parked nearby. Skycaps from a different sky locale.

Mr and Mrs Gator earnestly talked about the King who was nearby and had talked them into starting the mission and how the roomful of people could talk to this King themselves. He even touched some of them who had various physical and social ills with the ability to convey a feeling of worthiness. Often these people would be astonishingly healed of these ills. Returning recipients of the bounty had good stories to tell and it enhanced the expectation of extraordinary results. It also brought the King into sharp focus and reality. Truth.

A mission field right in the same country the Gators lived in! Only ten clicks away from their modest ranch and it felt good and right. They even got some of that good food too. So, you see, the mission field can be across the planet or in your own neighborhood. The key is to be available when the King lets you know of an opening that requires some one just like you. A special person that is perfect for the job. You. Completely unique, one of a kind and the mission can involve hundreds, thousands of people or just one. You. It seems the King is not interested in numbers of served or servants. His standards are just and true, just for you. He loves it when the ones he whispers to or writes love letters to, answer Him with an eager ‘Yes!’ Listen for His voice. He speaks softly and at times speaks right into your soul, unmistakable, and exciting. You can say no of course but the task is suited for you and the rewards are simply the Beloved Kings to give. Jesus is the King. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator